Vigil
by HRFan
Summary: Set after series 8...Harry and Ruth, of course, who else? Thanks for reading! HRFan


13

**Vigil**

**This fic came to me suddenly – I had to put it down on paper!**** Not quite sure what to make of it...thanks for reading it! **

**This is a one chapter only fic...I havebeen away from the site awhile, and am just dipping my toes back into the waters of Spooks fiction...**

**Rated T for language and content.**

**1.**

The hospital is so crowded with the injured and their distraught relatives that she can't spot Ros, and she panics. She pushes her way through the throng and shows her official badge, discreetly, to a nurse. _Amazing how much power one can wield with those bits of plastic_, she grimly muses to herself, as she is taken through a side door into the private patients' area. The nurse shows her a door. 'She's in here', she whispers.

Ruth pushes the door open, oblivious to anyone and anything but the woman lying in the bed, surrounded with machinery, drowned in transparent tubes. She looks smaller than she normally is, abnormally still, her skin so pale as to be virtually undistinguishable from her pillow. The only sound in the room is the soft whirring of the ventilator which keeps her breathing.

Ruth places her hand on Ros' wrist, and gives it a gentle squeeze, trusting that the other woman somehow can sense her presence.

'Hi'.

She turns round. 'Hi', she says softly. She takes in his appearance: dishevelled, his shirt grey with dust and bloodied in parts, his jacket carelessly discarded on a chair next to the sofa where he is sitting, cheeks hollow with fatigue, and eyes glassy with sleeplessness. She sits next to him, close but not too close. 'How is she?'

He shrugs. 'Critical. They still can't tell whether she'll come out of the coma...' He bites his lips and looks away. 'Thanks for coming', he adds hoarsely.

She rests her hand on his briefly. 'You shouldn't be here alone, Harry.' The intense look which he throws her frightens her so she turns away. 'Here, I brought you a clean shirt and your office shaving kit...' she says awkwardly.

'Thanks', he murmurs softly. He sighs. 'I had her father notified...her mother's dementia is so severe that there's no point telling her.'

'What did Myers say?'

'According to the Warden he took it very badly...he's applied for the right to come and visit her...on compassionate grounds. I don't think the acting Home Secretary will go with it. If...if she doesn't wake up', he whispers hoarsely, 'then I really don't know whether _I_ can make the decision to...'

`One thing at a time', she says firmly. 'The doctors don't know either way. Listen...do you want to go and get some rest? I can stay here with her.'

He shakes his head. 'Thanks but...I'll just freshen up in the men's toilets. The night is going to be crucial and I want to be here...but you can go home, there's no need for the two of us to...'

'I'm staying', she cuts in in a tone that admits of no argument.

He gets up heavily, unable and unwilling to disguise the relief in his voice. 'I'll be back soon'.

Left on her own, she walks over to Ros' bedside. _Well Ros_...she thinks. _To think that you're responsible for my exile...and that you saved my life a few months ago. Without you Mani would have cut my throat. And now you're lying there...you've got to make it, Ros. Without you...it's just not the same. And with Jo gone...not you, Ros...not you._

He is feeling fresher, more human, after a quick wash and a shave, the feel of the clean, crisp, unsoiled shirt on his skin soothing his spirits. He stands on the threshold of Ros' room, caught by the sight of Ruth bent over their colleague, whispering words he cannot hear. There is so much sadness on her face that his heart constricts with pain. 'Hi', he says softly. She looks up and were he closer to her he would swear that her eyes are glistening with tears. 'I brought you some tea. And a sandwich.'

'Thanks', she replies. They sit on the sofa, not too far but not too close, and resume their silent vigil. They don't say much, over the long hours that follow. A few words from time to time. A few reassuring thoughts. Practical matters to be solved once they get back to the Grid. She's taken off her shoes and made herself comfortable at one end of the sofa. He's unbuttonned his shirt at the top and not bothered with a tie. At around midnight, her morale dips badly. 'I couldn't bear it if she...if she didn't...I couldn't bear one more death', she chokes.

She wakes up some time later, only to find that her head is resting against Harry's shoulder, and that his arm is around her. She can tell, from the sound and rythm of his breathing, that he is awake, but she dares not speak up, afraid that he will then move away from her. 'Ruth...', he says softly, 'are you alright?' She nods silently, and remains very still. 'It may not be worth much', he says in a low, strained voice, without removing his arm. 'And perhaps now is not the time for this...But I want you to know that there hasn't been a day when I haven't questioned what I did. The decision i took that day...Not a single day, Ruth.'

She remains silent for such a long time that he thinks she will not respond. 'It's worth a lot', she whispers tremulously. 'More than you can imagine.'

'Do you think that you'll ever be able to forgive me?'

She turns towards him. 'But I have already forgiven you, Harry', she says softly. 'Don't you know it?'

'No, not really...I guess...' He looks away, throat tight. 'I guess I can't forgive myself.'

She rests her hand on his arm. 'It's about time you did.'

_And Nico_? He wants to ask. _Have you forgiven me for what might have happened to him?_ Yet he doesn't ask because he knows, deep down, that there are questions which no relationship, no friendship can survive, and this, surely, is one of them. So he remains silent and leans back against the sofa, somehow finding peace in their companionable silence.

'Harry?', she asks hesitantly.

'Mmmm?'

'If...if you had told Mani were the uranium was...he would have had George killed anyway, wouldn't he?'

He doesn't move and yet, the sudden tension in him is palpable. 'Yes. He would.'

'If you had been able to save him without disclosing the location of the uranium to Mani...'

'Then I would have done anything in my power to save him, Ruth. Anything. Not merely for his sake but...', he stops, aware of how far she is about to go into dangerous territory.

'But?', she presses him.

'Nothing', he sighs.

'For my sake as well?'

She waits for him to speak up, and she waits for such a long time that she's resigned herself to the fact that he won't, when he says, 'Yes. For your sake as well.'

'Even if...Even if it would have meant my going away again? You would have done it for my sake even then?', she says slowly, already wishing she hadn't asked.

'Going away with him, you mean? Back to Cyprus?'. She nodds, not trusting herself to speak, scared of what he might say. His eyes search hers, intently, hungrily. 'Your happiness means a lot to me', he says obliquely. 'It always has. More than mine', he whispers, almost inaudibly.

He falls silent, his face so close to hers that she almost gives in to the temptation of reaching up to him. But before she can say anything, he adds, tentatively, dreading her answer 'Were you happy with him?'.

'Yes, I was', she says simply. 'Once I had reconciled myself to the fact that I would never see England again...'. She swallows. She is so tempted to say what she knows he desperately wants her to say - _That I would never see you again. _But something holds her back, the fear of crossing the line she has herself drawn between them since she got back, her unwillingness to open the can of worms of their relationship as Ros is lying in a coma three feet away from them.

So she doesn't say it, and he moves away from her slightly, and the moment has passed.

**2.**

**Two**** weeks later**.

It's almost 11pm, and though he is tempted to take a cab to the hospital, where Ruth is on duty keeping a vigil for Ros, he knows that he'd be better off going straight home to snatch much needed sleep. Between the Grid, the hospital where he is on vigil duty for an hour a day, the time he spends there anyway, if he can, when Ruth is on too, he hasn't had time to rest properly since the explosion. He sighs. Ros is not showing signs of waking up yet. Lucas and Tariq are running ragged with piecing Nightingale together, and Ruth - well, Ruth too is exhausted, but somehow, in this – one of the deepest crises of their lives – she somehow manages to convey trust, strength, and reassurance. I don't know what I'd do without her, he thinks. Even though I can't really tell what she feels for me...

He tidies up his desk wearily and locks up the Grid behind him. He'll take the tube – there's no driver available at this time of night, and he'd welcome being in the middle of strangers going about their normal life, looking at him as a normal man unburdened by the terrible secrets he has had to keep for decades now. And if truth be told he'd also welcome a pretext not to be reachable on his mobile or pager, for once. I'll ring Ruth when I get home, he decides. Then bed.

The tube shudders to a halt between King's Cross and Euston Street. Signalling problems at Hampstead Tube station, the driver announces wearily after ten minutes. Damn, Harry clenches his teeth. At this rate he won't get home in time to get hold of Ruth...Those phone calls at the end of the day are his nourrishment, his solace, the reason why he can keep going as he does. They haven't discussed their relationship, or lack of it, since the explosion. But they have talked about everything else – Adam's and Zaf's death, Connie's betrayal, what his knighthood means to him (not a lot), her life in Cyprus...Slowly, she is learning to confide in him about her grief at the loss of George and Nico, and slowly he is learning not to read in what she tells him an indictment of his conduct under Mani's relentless questioning...They have reconnected as friends, at last, but not much else...He sighs and leans back against the scratchy backseat, resigned to a long halt underground and to the fact that by the time he gets home it'll be too late to call Ruth.

He wakes up with a start as the train pulls into Belsize Park. A quick glance at his watch tells him that they were stuck for over an hour. He gets off at Hampstead, a mere five mns walk from his house, and makes his way home. Since he gave Scarlet to his sister in the country, partly because his workoad made him neglect her, partly to help his sister through early widowhood, he is always alone when he comes home. Tonight, more than ever as he lets himself in, he finds the silence which welcomes him oppressive. He doesn't bother to switch on the lights and goes straight into the bathroom, shedding his clothes quickly, craving a long, hot shower. He lets the water wash over him and unknot his muscles one by one, and exhales in a long, releasing breath. Tomorrow is another day, he muses tiredly as he dries himself off. One step at a time. See what the doctors say. As for Ruth...

He stops suddenly, all senses on alert. He can hear a faint noise downstairs, as if someone is trying to break in. He leaves the lights off, and silently goes into his bedroom, hastily puts on a pair of trousers and a jumper, and pulls out a gun from his bedside table. He goes downstairs one step at a time, slowly, carefully. Through the glass pane of the maindoor he can make out a shadowy silhouette. His intruder is turning the door handle – he can't tell whether they are trying to pick the lock. Soundlessly he retreats into his kithchen and goes out into the garden, round the house, all five senses on the alert. He springs up behind the intruder and armlocks them, gun at their head 'Do not move', he says softly and coldly, 'Do not even think about trying to break free.'

He manhandles his prey into his hallway, ignoring the muffled protests, and gets him down onto the floor, knee between shoulder blades. Until his brain finally processes what his senses have been telling him. The voice is that of a woman. And he knows that smell, in fact he would recognise it into a crowded room. He swears softly and reaches for the light. At the sight that greets him, he lets out a stunned whisper. 'Ruth?'

**3. **

She is flushed and her breasts are rising and falling heavily through breathlessness. He is standing so close to her that he can feel the heat of her body, and the tightening response of his own flesh.

'Harry, let me go, you're hurting me', she says, sounding much more calm than she really is. She's troubled by his proximity, by the slight dampness of his hair, the obvious fact that he is wearing nothing underneath his jumper...

He releases her immediately, as if burnt, and steps away from her. 'What are you doing here?' And he can't help sounding accusatory – it's either being harsh, or fumbling like a teenager who is aroused for the first time by a woman.

She stiffens. 'I'm sorry. I tried to ring you but you wouldn't pick up and...could you please get rid of your gun? Please? It's making me nervous.'

Without taking his eyes off her he locks his gun in the hallway table. And checks his phone while he is at it. 'Battery's dead. I was stuck on the tube for ages...Ruth, what's going on?' And then, he knows, suddenly, why she would go to such length as to come to his house in the middle of the night. 'It's Ros right? She's...she won't come out of the coma, will she, that's why...God.' He sags against the wall, eyes closed, drained of all energy, already feeling the first waves of grief coming at him.

But suddenly, miraculously, he hears her laughter, almost manic, and feels the gentle pressure of her hands on his arms. He opens his eyes, blinded by the joy which is transforming her face. 'She woke up!', Ruth almost shouts. 'She is out of the woods...she mumbled a few words, I've no idea what but...'

His knees almost buckles, and he gets hold of her, crushing her against him, as much to keep himself upright as to give in to his urge to touch and feel her. 'Thank God', he rasps, mouth in her hair, 'Thank God...'

They cling to each other tightly, both of them unwilling to let go, both fully aware of the other's body, knowing too that as soon as they move apart they will have to deal with the inevitable awkwardness of their sudden physical intimacy.

By common, implicit agreement, they pull away. 'Let's celebrate', he says decisively. 'It's horrendously late but it's the least Ros deserves.'

She follows him to his living room, shy suddenly, not quite sure where to sit, what to do, how to conduct herself as he pulls out glasses and a lovely bottle of red wine from a beautiful wooden chest. She settles for the sofa and feels both relieved and nervous when he sits right next to her. 'To Ros', he toasts.

'To Ros', she whispers. She tastes the wine, rich, flowing, filling her veins, Harry's eyes burning into the curve of her cheek. Her heart start beating loudly in her chest, her mouth becomes dry despite the wine, for she knows that soon, very soon, she will have to meet his eyes, if only out of curtesy. She swallows.

'Ruth', he says softly, 'look at me.'

Slowly she turns around to face him. If she could see herself in the mirror right now, she would gaze at the look of a frightened doe. He cups her face with his hand. She clings to her glass, looking for safety in the fragile and delicate stem. He takes the glass away from her, and curls his other hand around hers. 'Why did you come tonight?', he asks gently.

She looks away. 'I wanted to tell you...as soon as possible really. You had to know.'

'You could have sent a police car', he objects cautiously, mindful of her fears and fragility, but filled with hope that this, finally, might be the moment when they can unlock themselves together.

'Well, yes. But I didn't want to. I didn't want you to find out that Ros was OK from some anonymous police officer. After everything we've been through...You know...' She starts fidgeting. 'Look, it's really very late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. I should go home.' She starts standing up but he gets her down on the sofa again. 'Don't', he says firmly. 'Don't pretend that there's nothing going on between us. At least don't pretend with me. We're past that point, you and I. And how are you getting home anyway? The underground is closed and you won't find a cab at this hour, so...'

She stiffens, for despite her best resolve she is filled with fear, suddenly, about the conversation they must have together sooner or later. 'So what are you suggesting? That I sleep in your bed?', she blurts out, regretting the words as soon as they come out of her mouth.

His jaw drops. 'Of course not! Do you really think that I'm after some kind of celebratory fuck? For heavens' sake, Ruth! What kind of man do you think I am!' - and he knows he sounds angry, and irritated, but it's late, and he's tired, all of a sudden, of this dance they are weaving around each other, of having always to fight his desire for her, of trying to second guess what she is feeling. But he takes in her stricken face, and suspiciously bright eyes, and his temper becalms as suddenly as it rose. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so coarse. At least not with you. Look, I have a guest room, you're more than welcome to stay there tonight. It's en suite and there're fresh toiletries in the showeroom.' He gets up from the sofa wearily, without looking at her.

'Harry...' _ I came here because I love you_, she desperately wants to tell him, _and because I don't want us to waste any more time, and..._But the look on his face, so tired, and dark, and forbidding, stops her. 'Thank you', she says stiffly. 'It's very kind of you. And you're right, at this time of night, I won't be able to get home easily and...' He nods, and silently motions her upstairs, to show her where she will sleep, and where everything is.

They bid each other goodnight, almost formally, without touching, knowing that it will be a long, long time before they manage to fall asleep.

**4. **

She wakes up with a start. Having spent two hours lying in the dark, tossing and turning, going over their disastrous conversation when they should have been celebrating Ros' awakening, she had welcome the embrace of sleep. And yet, something, someone somehow roused her. She listens intently, and hears muffled sounds: Harry's voice, half shouting incoherently...

She doesn't stop to think. She pays no attention to the fact that she is only wearing her briefs and an old teeshirt she found in a drawer. She goes straight into what she guesses is his bedroom. She knocks on the door, but doesn't get an answer. So she goes straight in, and in the dim light of the moon, make him out turning and thrashing his bed, in the grip of a nightmare. She sits next to him and tentatively puts her hand on his bare skin. He is drenched in sweat, sheet twisted around his lower body. Slowly and gently, trying not to wake him up for fear that he would then remember the awful images which are plaguing his consciousness, she rubs his naked back in concentric circles, and starts talking to him in a low and soothing voice. Snippets of gossip from the Grid. Reminiscences from the long years they both worked there. Memories of their fallen colleagues...

And slowly he calms down, without waking up, his breathing deeper and more regular. Her back is hurting her to she is lying down next to him and holds him against her. _Just for a few moments_, she tells herself firmly. _Until he is fully quiet, and then I can go back to bed, and he need never know that I saw him like this. And tomorrow morning, I'll tell him that we need to talk, and maybe we can sort out...can't go on...too hard..._

**5. **

As he slowly rises to consciousness he becomes aware of an unfamiliar weight leaning on him, of a long forgotten warmth between the sheets, of the feel of longed-for soft skin against his own. He opens his eyes, cautiously, disoriented, not quite awake. Ruth is asleep in his bed, her back curved against his midriff, spoon-like and his arm is circling her, his chin on top of her hair. He dares not move. No matter how she came to him during the night, no matter why, he doesn't want to spoil this unguarded moment by waking her up. This might be the first and last time they are lying together like this, ever, so he will milk it for all its worth...

_I was too abrupt with her last night, _ he berates himself. _ I should have listened and given her time, and instead…._He sighs, his heart and mind troubled as they always are by the complexities in their relationship and his body embarrassingly alive to hers. He moves his lower body away slightly. _Get a grip Pearce….as soon as she wakes up she'll start fidgeting and feeling self-conscious so don't make it worse by making it so obvious to her how much you want her…_

After a while he can tell, by the quickened pace of her breathing, that she is waking up. He doesn't move an inch, letting her feel and see how close they are, together, in his bed. He tries to breathe as deeply as he can, pretending to be asleep, just to see how she will react. Sneaky, he knows, but effective, for soon she starts stroking his arm, a light feathery touch which sends shivers down his spine. Somehow he manages to control his breathing, until she sags against him, body length to body length. She tenses fractionally, as she must be aware by now of his desire for her, but she doesn't shift away. Instead, she lies there, allowing herself fully to rest against him, and enabling him to feel every curve, every sinew of her body through her flimsy clothes.

His breath quickens. He can't pretend anymore to be asleep and he is about to say something, anything, but she beats him to it. Her back still to him, she murmurs, softly, 'I came here last night because _I_ wanted to share the news about Ros with _you_,and no one else. And I wanted to do that because I love you. I've always loved you…well, actually, it took me a year or so to fall in love with you after I came to the Grid but…you know what I mean.' She falls silent, for a long time, and yet he knows, instinctively, that he is not to say anything, but simply to listen. 'When I was in Cyprus…I loved you still. I never stopped. I locked that feeling away, and built a life with George. And I truly was happy, Harry. I can't lie about that. But I knew, deep down, that if there ever was a chance I would see you again…then would be the end of my new life.'

She turns round to face him, and it's clear to him, from the utter lack of surprise on her face, that she knew all along that he was awake. She cups his cheek with her hand. 'I'm sorry about last night. It's not that I didn't want to be honest with you…it's just that…I was afraid.'

He kisses the palm of her hand. 'Afraid of what, Ruth? You know that I love you…Have I not made my feelings for you plain all along?'

'You have. But….I was terrified of losing you. Besides…' She looks away, and takes a deep breath. 'I'm not glamorous, or high powered, or beautiful, or sexy. I'm just an analyst working for…'

'Stop it', he says firmly but gently. 'Stop it, right now.' He raises her face towards his. 'Look at me', he commands softly. 'I love you. I couldn't care less about glamour. And yes, I do care about beauty, very much so, and to me you are beautiful. I…'

'Harry, you don't have to…'

'Yes, I do have to say it. I've wanted to do that for years. You prevented me from saying it years ago on that damn dock. Well, not today. Besides', he risks the joke, 'if you come to a man's bed uninvited in the middle of the night, the least you can do is listen to him in the morning.'

'I heard you shout, you were having a nightmare', she protests mildly.

'Ah. I'm sorry. Really sorry I woke you up….those nightmares…I have them periodically. Since Northern Ireland…'

'You're not really sorry, are you?' she asks mischieviously.

His smile lights up his face. 'No, not really. Those dreams got you into my bed at last…. Now listen.' He raises himself on an elbow and makes a point of staring at her face, her body, letting her see the love and desire on his face. 'I love you. I want you. Have done for years. I love the way you fidget. When you do, I watch your hands move and I imagine them running over my body. God, you look adorable when you blush. I love those long skirts you're wearing: they make me want to see your legs. I love your eyes. Christ, if you knew what they do to me….and your smile. It's the first thing I want to see when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing at night. I love those tops too, how they cling to you…do you have any idea how often I have wanted to run my fingers down your neck and chest? How much I have wanted to undress you, slowly, and taste you? My God, Ruth…'

'I had no idea', she whispers. 'No idea that you feel that strongly about me.'

'Well, I do. Do you remember when I was suspended? Years ago? I found you on your bus, you gave me a USB key, I behaved like a prat. And later, when I was reinstated, I got into the Grid. It was dark. You were the only one there. You said 'it's good to have you back', and I said something inane like 'it's good to be back.' And I went into my office, and sorted out some paperwork. I felt so happy to be back there, where I belong. But all the time I was aware of the glow of your desk lamp, of the way it lit up your hair and your face. That evening…I wanted you Ruth. More than I had ever wanted anyone in my life. That's when I realised that what I felt for you went far beyond mild attraction. And when you broke Angela Wells…do you remember? You were angry with me because I'd failed to really understand what you had gone through. So I grabbed you, and spouted some self-justificatory b…shit about sacrifice and self-denial….when all I wanted to do was to pin you against the wall and have you. There and then. So…don't tell me you're not beautiful, or not sexy, or whatever. To me you are. I want you, and there hasn't been anyone else for me, not since I became aware of my feelings for you. Besides it's not as if I can claim first prize for attractiveness myself so….'

'You _are _attractive! But Harry, for you that's…'

'Over five years ago. Yes. I know', he says wryly. 'And believe me, right now, your being in my bed half naked next to me is really testing my self-control to its limits. As you can't have failed to realise.'

She smiles at him seductively, moulding herself to him. 'Let me see…ah. Yes. Mmm…' She runs her hands over his shoulders and down his back, and round his hips through his pyjama trousers.

He swallows. 'Ruth. I meant what I said. It's been a long time for me and…'

'Shss…' She reaches up to him and brushes her mouth against his, tentatively at first, then thoroughly, drinking at the fount of their love for each other, letting her desire for him rise up and match his. His hands slide under her top, mirroring the movement of her own hands, slowly moving towards the soft round globes of her feminity. She stops him gently. 'Harry', she asks breathlessly, 'do you really want this, here, now? Because if we don't stop now, we won't be able to later ….and we both have to go to work, to see Ros in hospital. And we've waited so long for this…surely we can wait a bit longer and….'

He takes his hands away and kisses her lightly on the nose. 'You're right. Much as I want to make love to you now, it wouldn't be right. And that's not how I imagined our first time together really. Not a ten minute quickie before work.'

'Oh? And what did you imagine?', she asks playfully, trying to ignore his arousal and what it does to her.

His eyes grows dark. He slowly traces the outline of her face with his fingers. 'I will take you out to diner tonight', he promises. 'No matter what national crisis there is. And after diner, if you'll let me…' His voice drops to a seductive murmur. 'After diner, I will bring you back here. And I will undress you, and explore every single each of you, one inch at a time. And when you're ready….' He swallows. 'When we are both ready, I will make you mine. As you will make me yours.'

'Sounds good', she whispers, moved to tears by his words and the intensity in his voice. 'Sounds very good.' Yet she can't help running her fingers over his lower body, delighting in his startled moan. 'God Ruth…I thought we'd agreed to wait. Maybe waiting is overrated' he adds hoarsely. 'Don't stop, please don't…Ruth! Come back to bed…'

She laughs all the way to the bathroom. 'Just checking you out, Harry…just checking you out. Now, want to join me for a cold shower?' she asks teasingly.

'I'll pass', he groans. 'I'll go after you. And Ruth?'

'Yes?'

'I _will_ get you for this, you know….'

'Oh yes? And how exactly?'

He holds her gaze, his look smoldering with desire. 'You've got the whole day to figure it out. What?'

In a low, serious, voice, she says, 'What if I wanted a whole life?'

He remains very still. Then he gets up and walks towards her, bare chested, and still wanting her. He stands right in front of her and puts his hands on her shoulders. She raises her eyes to meet his. 'You've got it', he whispers.

Her eyes fill with tears. 'is this it, then, Harry? Is it really it, with us? We've made it?'

He chuckles weakly. 'Yes, Ruth. We've made it.'

She sighs deeply, and her shoulders visibly lift up and her whole body looks and feels lighter under his hand, as if an enormous weight has been taken away from her. 'I love you', she says shakily.

He bends his head and kisses her on the lips. 'I love you too.'

The END.


End file.
